


―if i kissed you

by shuckit



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, this is so bad dont judge me but im rly soft for them its fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 12:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15949832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuckit/pseuds/shuckit
Summary: A jolt of shock crashed into Dmitry's chest like a thunderbolt. He stumbled away from the bed, his lungs feeling suffocated as if they would suddenly collapse without warning. "I-I didn't tell you that.""You didn't have to." She rotated towards him, her wide eyes immediately recognizable. Perhaps they were Anya's eyes but there was absolutely no mistaking it ― they were Anastasia's too. "I remember," she gasped softly.





	―if i kissed you

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty long and it might not b the most interesting thing to read but i've had a super fun time writing it <3 i also ended up sobbing while writing this so i hope u experience at least a fraction of that emotion . 
> 
> essentially i wrote the scene where anya n dmitry sing crowd of thousands but i added a twist at the end!!

Dmitry awoke to a bone-chilling scream. He'd been sleeping like a rock ― a fitful, undisturbed sleep. As a ruddy cheeked kid with dirt smeared across his clothing, he'd always dreamed of falling asleep in a bed fit for a Tsar. Now that his childhood dreams were finally becoming reality, the fact he had to be so abruptly ripped from them in the middle of the night only seemed fitting based on his luck. 

He tore himself out of his tangled sheets, his heart already pounding like the beat of a drum inside his chest. He bolted into Anya's room across the hallway from his own, throwing the door open like it was a sheet of paper rather than a solid, finely crafted Parisian door.

"Anya?" His voice was stricken with fear as he thudded to a stop in the doorway. With fear of what he'd see. 

She was standing a couple strides away from her bed, the blankets crumpled in a pile. Her cream nightgown was wrapped around her lithe figure, the colour giving her a pale, unhealthy tint to her normally flushed golden skin. 

"The voices keep coming back," she gasped, her body shuddering.

Dmitry thundered across the hard floor toward her, his hands instinctively raised in a comforting, reassuring gesture. "That's all they are. Voices." He slowed as he reached her, taking slow, careful steps so as to not scare her. She was like a doe, her pale blue eyes widened with fear as she trembled. "You're having a nightmare," he murmured in a low voice, his arms reaching out to softly clasp her own. 

Dmitry normally associated Anya with pumpkin spice, fingerless gloves and wintry pine forests. She reminded him of a weathered tree trunk that had been cut down by life's losses but still remained rooted in place with an unimaginable bravery and fearlessness. But in the present, it was difficult to picture her as anything but a pale, panicked girl. Nobody was completely fearless, as it seemed. 

"Stay with me, Dmitry, I'm frightened," she pleaded as Dmitry guided her to her bed, his warm hands just barely wrapped around her forearms. Her terror ensuing from her nightmare was a stark reminder that fear was inescapable. Even to the strongest people, it made itself known. 

"Is that better?" He questioned as they both sat in unison, one hand lingering on her back and the other nestled in her lap alongside her two quaking hands. 

"Who do you think I am, Dmitry?" She turned towards him, her wide blue eyes searching his for an answer he wasn't sure he could give.

"If I were the Dowager Empress, I would want you to be Anastasia." His gaze dropped to their connected hands, giving her palm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. 

"You would?

With a regained confidence, he continued, "I would want her to be a beautiful, strong, intelligent young woman." They were facing each other on the edge of the bed, close enough for Dmitry to see the clear distress written across Anya's features and feel her shallow breaths fan across his face. 

"Is that what you think I am?" Her gaze was so lost and so wildly sincere all at once, it took him aback. He inhaled sharply, uncomfortable with expressing his emotions so clearly but unable to deny the truth of his words. "I do," he murmured in a low voice, the words escaping his lips before he could process them. But the instant they rolled smoothly off his tongue, he knew with a deep twist of his gut, they were utterly and completely true.

There was a heavy pause before she responded, nothing existing but the faint touch of her hand in his, their two locked gazes, and the charged space separating them.

"Thank you."

And with that, the quiet energy shattered. Suddenly, everything seemed overly intimate and the two of them broke apart, hands falling into respective laps as they turned away from each other. 

"You're. . . welcome," he swallowed, his adam apple bobbing.

The fear she'd held in her demeanor previously vanished like a puff of smoke in an afternoon breeze, replaced with her normal haughty sass. "I began to wonder if you were ever going to pay me a compliment."

He shook his head, releasing a "pfft" in response. He fidgeted with his thumbs, uncomfortably aware of the large distance they'd made between each other on her small bed. 

"Do you really think I might be her?"

He turned back toward her, his gaze finding hers. In every way she looked the part of a Romanov duchess; her lifted chin, regal nose, those pale blue eyes that complemented her features so well. 

He lifted his shoulders and dropped them in a loose shrug. "I _want_ to believe you're the little girl I saw once many years ago." He looked away but he could feel her lingering gaze and the unspoken questions she dared not ask. 

"I don't understand," she softly uttered, a simple, nearly unnoticable smile quirking the edges of her lips.

Dmitry paused, letting the memories from so many years ago slowly return in cascading waves.

* * *

_It was June. It was a warm day but the heat didn't bother ten year old Dmitry. He was thriving off of the energy of everyone bustling around him, their limbs swinging and their voices raised as they cheered. The main focus of attention was the passing Romanov family, their dignified faces lifted to the sun. A little girl, in particular, had snatched Dmitry's attention. Her gaze roamed across the crowds, a fascination alight in her pale blue eyes. For an eight year old, she held a startling amount of pride and serenity. Her spine was as straight as a ruler and yet she looked completely comfortable and at ease under the views of so many people._

_An immediate, uncontrollable rush swept through Dmitry's body and before he knew it, he'd taken off after them. His legs pumped as he ran, one arm dramatically outstretched toward the serene royal family. He called out her name, his lungs burning within his chest. Anastasia. The little girl's gaze finally spotted him amid the countless others and an unmistakable smile appeared on her pale rose-pink lips. Dmitry skidded to a stop, disturbed dust swirling around his legs. The parade travelled on, carrying the little Duchess farther away with every second that passed. With the sun in his eyes, she was gone._

* * *

"If I were still ten, in that crowd of thousands, I'd find her again," he finished. His gaze wandered to meet hers, trying to picture Anya's pale blue eyes belonging to the little girl he'd stared at that day ― trying to picture them being the same. 

"You're making me feel I was there too."

"Maybe you were!" He exclaimed with a quiet chuckle, "make it part of your story."

During his brief time explaining his side of that June day in a crowd of thousands, he'd gotten up and walked a few footsteps away. He returned to her bed, standing and loosely gripping her bedframe with his hands as he listened.

"A parade."

"A parade," he repeated, edging her on.

"Passing by."

"Passing by."

"It was hot, not a cloud in the sky." Dmitry nodded, falling silent as she seemed to catch the hang of it. "Then a boy caught my eye." He cheekily slid close to her, resulting in a chuckle from the both of them. "He was thin," she added as she slid even closer to him, their hips touching. "Not too clean." They exchanged glances and Dmitry snorted in protest but allowed her to continue. "There were guards, but he dodged in between. Yes, he made himself seen." She smiled at him, any trace of her previous fear completely erased as if it had never existed. "Then he called out my name and he started to run, through the sun and the heat and crowd."

Dmitry watched silently from the edge of the bed as she slowly stood and took a couple steps away, lost in the magic of the storytelling. Her voice had softened to a murmur, just barely loud enough for him to hear. It was as if she'd gone to a place within her mind, so focused on trying to grasp forgotten memories, she was hardly aware of his presence. "I tried not to smile but I smiled." She outstretched her hand as if reaching for tangible memories lurking somewhere, hidden from view. "And then he. . . . bowed."

A jolt of shock crashed into Dmitry's chest like a thunderbolt. He stumbled away from the bed, his lungs feeling suffocated as if they would suddenly collapse without warning. "I-I didn't tell you that."

"You didn't have to." She rotated towards him, her wide eyes immediately recognizable. Perhaps they were Anya's eyes but there was absolutely no mistaking it ― they were Anastasia's too. "I remember," she gasped softly.

A moment passed. All it took was one fleeting moment for the info to sink in before the two of them raced to meet each other, outstretched arms connecting. They grasped each other so tightly but softly, their warm palms enclosed around arms. Their electric gazes were locked together and all time and space seemed to revolve around that one infinite moment. 

"With the sun in my eyes you were gone," Dmitry breathed, his gaze dropping to view her delicate, firm hands enclosed around his forearms. They were Anya's hands. They were _Anastasia_ 's hands. She was real. She was _here_.

"But I knew, even then, in that crowd of thousands--"

In unison, they murmured, "I'd see you again."

There was a powerful hum in the space that separated them, a charged expectancy he couldn't ignore. Dmitry took a step closer toward her, his throat constricting as he gazed down on the girl that had shaped his childhood and was slowly, bit by bit changing his entire life. His hand lifted to gently touch her cheek, the other clasped in hers. He was overly aware of the rise and fall of their chests, the air they both shared between them, the bold, steady gaze she focused on him, the specific shade of her lower lip, the receeding distance between them as he took another careful step forward. His fingertips slid to her elbow as he leaned downwards, his breath caught in his throat. Her face grew closer until her lips were so close he could feel her breathing softly brushing against his own lips.

In that hovering hesitation, his fingertips gently touching her arm, his hand held on her cheek, he made a decision. He chose Anya. Whatever that meant or whatever result might ensue, he chose her. He chose the fierce determination that had paved every decision she'd made. He chose her stubborn pride and haughty nose and pale blue eyes and stormy laugh. He chose pumpkin spice, fingerless gloves and wintry pine forests. And he chose to kiss her.

His lips softly met hers. 

There was an explosion of affection in his chest, more emotion than he knew he was capable of. She smelled like cheap strawberry hotel shampoo and the faintest remnant of St Petersburg. Her rough, blistered palms from hours of streetsweeping softly connected with the side of his face, both gentle and firm. Throughout their journey until this point he hadn't quite realized how badly he'd longed for a moment like this, where the distance that had constantly seperated them was finally vanquished. He was pathetic at understanding and adknowledging his emotions but nothing could be more clear than the way his heart thudded in his chest as he kissed her.

As soon as it had begun, it ended.

Dmitry broke apart abruptly, taking a rushed step backwards. Anya's cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, and he realized with a painful swallow, she had never looked more like a princess.

And princesses didn't marry boys from off the street.

With all of the respect he could muster, he sunk to one knee and uttered a solemn, "your highness." Dmitry ducked his head out of politeness, feeling the hard, cold floor through his thin pyjama pants.

He'd never felt more ashamed or unworthy. He was just a boy from the busy, rumbling streets of St Petersburg. He wasn't fit to fall in love with the grand duchess Anastasia, much less have the audacity to kiss her. Part of him had hoped that after everything they'd gone through together, it would be rational, understandable. . . But now he realized, in no world or circumstance could a boy from the rowdy streets ever be worthy or justified to fall in love with Anastasia. Even if that meant Anya, too.

"I shouldn't have," he choked out, the words tripping off his tongue before he could decide if they were the right ones, "I'm sorry."

He felt the silence weigh heavily on his curved shoulders and bowed neck. Part of him wished he could see Anya's face but the other part of him knew it was for the better. He didn't want to harm his fragile emotions more than he already had by spotting the look of disdain detailed in her features.

He felt two small, firm hands grip him by the shoulders and pull him upright. His gaze slid to meet her stoic, defiant blue gaze. Another apology was already forming in his mind but she silenced his thoughts with a simply spoken, "no."

He raised an eyebrow, silently questioning.

" _You_ ," she said, angrily poking him in the chest, "and I are no different from each other." She lifted her chin, boldly challenging him to disagree. "I grew up in the same old Russia, I know what it's like to struggle and try to earn my keep. And I know that no matter where you come from or what your life looks like," the anger in her voice slowly melted to something softer, more sincere, "we're all the same." She clasped his large, rough hands in hers and in that sweet, serene moment, Dmitry let himself believe her.

"I. . ." His chest rose and fell as he tried to find the right words, a heavy fear pressing down on his chest. 'I love you, Anya', weren't exactly the easiest words to vocally wrap his lips around. 

A soft smile graced Anya's features and she pulled him into a hug, her arms encircling him and her head gently rested on her shoulder. It took a second for Dmitry to relax into the embrace, his own arms looping around her back.

"I know," she murmured, her breathing brushing against his ear as she spoke, "I love you, too."


End file.
